


A Horrifying Menagerie

by Rhymefire



Series: We Are One [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abomination!Inquisitior, Fluff, Horses, Humor, Inquisition Mounts (Dragon Age), M/M, Poor horsemaster dennet, Romance, and then making decisions based on being bad with animals, being bad with animals, it's not what he signed up for, possessed!inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhymefire/pseuds/Rhymefire
Summary: Various groups around Thedas are showing support for the Inquisition by sending mounts over. This shouldn't be a problem. But it is. Dorian's honestly not sure what everyone expects him to do about it.





	1. Ferelden Forder

The Ferelden Forder incident had made it very clear to all of them that while the Inquisitor (then the Herald of Andraste) loved everything about horses and other animals, he really didn’t know all that much about them.

The Ferelden Forder incident happened right after Dorian had masterfully persuaded the horsemaster Dennet to come to Haven with them. Simon had faltered at the horsemaster’s musing on not being willing to leave his family behind. To Dorian, it had been a very translucent negotiation tactic, but Simon had deflated and said, “I mean, I wouldn’t want them to get hurt if you were away.”

To salvage negotiations, Dorian put on his best ‘pompous altus’ voice. “Oh, let him go. We can use one of my servants from Minrathous. Tevinter horses are the finest in the world.”

Dennet’s worry about his family had vanished in an instant. He’d drawn up, the very image of affronted national pride. “Tevinter! Your horses can barely trot without needing grain and milk! All right, Inquisition. I’ll look to your horses myself. Never let it be said that Redcliffe gave less than the best.” He told Simon to take the chestnut.

Dorian had lingered behind to take a bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed (Simon liked collecting rare alcohols. Not to drink but to look at the pretty bottles, because he was ridiculous) so he had gotten a perfect view of the horsemaster’s face. Dennet had started by nearly letting his jaw drop onto the floor in shocked affront. He’d drawn himself up and started a furious step forward. Then he’d groaned and shook his head. He put his head in his hands in abject resignation and wearily went upstairs to pack.

Dorian poked his head outside to see what in the void had affected him that way. He couldn’t help but laugh. Simon had made a new friend. He patted the mane of a horse. He had somehow managed to perch awkwardly on top of a saddled bay. The bay tossed its head proudly and stamped a hoof. Dorian strode forward and said to Cassandra, “You do realize that’s a bay, right? It’s not the chestnut.” He pointed to a placid mare cropping the grass a few feet away. “The chestnut is over there, Simon.”

Simon looked crushed. He wound his fingers in the bay’s mane. “But I just named her. We’re friends now. And Valour likes her.”

Cassandra had made a disgusted noise. “Maker’s breath. It’s a horse. They’re all the same. What does it matter?”

Dorian had sighed and mounted the placid chestnut, because he was damned if he was going to walk all the way back to camp. Besides, Dennet was taking all the horses with him anyways, so it wasn’t like he was stealing. Cassandra and Varric followed his example.

Dorian expertly guided his new horse to the gate, Cassandra and Varric close behind. “Um, guys?” Simon called after them. “How do I get her to move?”

Cassandra swiveled in her saddle. “You are a noble! How do you not know how to ride?”

“I was in the Ostwick circle, remember? Why does everyone keep forgetting that?”

“But you said,” Dorian told him, “that you went home every summer to visit your family.”

Simon looked surprised. He laughed. “The templars didn’t let me ride. They rode on horses and I walked in chains behind them, obviously. If they’d given me a horse, I might have escaped. My family lived right in Ostwick, so it was only for an hour or so, anyways.”

“Every detail of your life,” Dorian announced, “is horrifying. Just squeeze her gently with your legs. And keep your heels down.”

Simon had looked dubious. “Well, I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You’re already sitting on her. She’ll be fine.”

Simon had tried it. The bay took a single step forward, snorted, tossed its head and immediately tried to lie down. It was a long trip back to camp.

 

The Ferelden Forder Incident was the reason that Dorian had somehow found himself saddled with the job of teaching the new inquisitor how to ride. At first, he had loved this idea. His mind had helpfully supplied erotic imagery of what could potentially happen during riding lessons. Perhaps Simon would need his help mounting the creature and he’d get to say lots of dirty things to help direct him. Naturally, Simon would get adorably flustered and they’d sneak kisses. Perhaps he would have to sit behind him to show him how to use the reins properly. He’d get to press close to him and it would almost be like they were an actual couple.

Such delightful thoughts had vaporized as soon as he first tried to actually teach Simon. He discovered that Simon’s idea of riding was to nervously cling to the saddle and insist on asking the horse nicely if it would pretty please go forward. On solid ground, his idea of caring for a horse consisted of tackling it in a hug and trying to roughhouse with the animal as though it were just a really big cat.

The Ferelden Forder Incident, and the lessons it inspired, was the reason that when Cullen mentioned offhandedly that the finest armourers in the land were sending them a horse a chill ran down Dorian’s spine. He went to the library, lost in thought. The library was his territory and everyone knew it. It had been denoted as such when the constructions had first begun in Skyhold. He’d seen a worker casually use a first edition tome as a doorstop and screeched like an enraged harpy. Dorian had ripped it free and swore savagely at the startled worker in Tevene. He’d unabashedly sicced a fearling on some idiot who he’d found sauntering casually to an outhouse with a book. Currently, half of Skyhold knew him as a terrifying, soul-stealing magister and the other half knew him as that crazy man that hoarded books and spoke in tongues.

He’d recruited several Tranquil to help him collect the scattered books. He remembered Simon’s advice and gave them very strict, detailed instructions that they followed to the letter. More than a few workers had been approached by a Tranquil and asked in their typical dead-eyed way to release the book so they could return it to the library. That had worked wonders. Not many people liked being spooked by a Tranquil popping out from behind a corner and staring at you until you handed over whatever rare book you were ripping pages out of.

The chill in Dorian’s spine intensified when he found Simon sitting in his chair. Simon had a pile of books about smithing and barding towering beside him. He looked up and grinned. “It’s got to be a strong horse those smiths are sending over. You don’t think I should be learning to fight on horseback, do you?”

That really was a terrifying thought. “Well, I suppose you could try falling directly onto whoever you’re trying to kill.”

Simon laughed and went back to his book. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad. He was probably worrying for nothing. The horrid cat leapt onto the back of his armchair. It stared directly at him and grimly sank its claws deep into the fabric. Wonderful.


	2. Flames of the Inquisition Charger

Varric was on Cassandra-watch the day the armoured horse arrived. ‘Cassandra-watch’ was a system that Josie had implemented so that their darling seeker didn’t lose it and push Simon off a battlement. Most of the inner circle had calmed down somewhat about the whole Simon-being-an-abomination thing, but Cassandra clung to her rage like a child with a favourite toy. According to her, Simon had misled all of them and now they were being led by a viper. ‘Cassandra-watch’ mostly consisted of the inner circle taking turns keeping track of where the seeker was and guiding her away from wherever Simon was. Dorian and Solas had been, thankfully, excluded from this important duty. Simon had the endearing habit of seeking them out for various reasons. Their jobs were to stay away from Cassandra so that when the inquisitor inevitably came to them he wouldn’t be grabbed by an enraged seeker.

The idea of Simon as a lying viper was honestly hilarious. Dorian had met so many actual lying vipers at parties back home. The only way he could imagine Simon and a viper in the same context was if the inquisitor had decided that a snake would make an amazing pet and needed to be hugged immediately. Dorian made a mental note to keep Simon away from snakes. They didn’t need another Mittens, after all. Simon was also a horrible liar. Honestly, it was a small miracle that he hadn’t been outed as possessed earlier. The only reason it hadn’t happened was because the idea was so outlandish. And yet, there it was.

Dorian stood next to Simon as the armoured horse and the legion of smiths leading it drew closer. The inquisitor bounced on his toes with excitement and Dorian tried not to smile too openly at the display. Despite the trouble the revelation had caused, he liked Simon even more now that the secret was out. The simple fact that several people knew about that spirit of his and didn’t want to kill him had emboldened the inquisitor. He was still painfully shy, but he laughed easier now and threw the kind of smiles at Dorian that would have started very dangerous rumours back home. He couldn’t help the small flutter in his stomach whenever he got one of those smiles. They were simple and pure and he craved them greedily.

Simon nudged him with an elbow. “Dorian, look!” He ran forward to meet the smiths. Their spokesman stepped forward. Josephine smoothly swept in to greet them. Dorian hung back and watched the proceedings with veiled amusement. Simon would probably be terrible at dealing with nobles, but he was excellent with peasants. Nobles would rip him to pieces since he had the endearing habit of letting every single thought and emotion flicker across his face. The lower classes loved this about him. More than one worker had slapped him across the back and said, “He’s not a right tit. Got his feet on the ground.”

The idea that Simon had his feet on the ground was also hilarious. At the best of times, he was a mercurial, flighty creature. He was, for example, prone to letting his eyes glaze over and tuning people out. At first, he had thought this an example of some sort of sickness, but now he knew that Simon was just listening to his bound spirit. Dorian had found himself getting into the habit of waiting patiently for Simon to finish his silent conversation. It was appalling how easily he’d started doing that. It was appalling how easily Simon had managed to slip so effortlessly under the careful walls that Dorian had set up around his heart. It was worse that he had no idea that he’d even done it.

So Dorian watched Simon carefully identify each piece of barding that the horse wore and kept any foolish grins locked down. The smiths, as expected, clustered around him and pronounced that they were ever so glad that the inquisitor had his feet on the ground instead of being a right tit.

Once they’d left, Simon led the armoured horse to the stables. “He’s beautiful, but I’m not really sure what to do with him. I’m not sure if he really suits me, you know?”

“Well, I’m sure somebody will want him,” Dorian said. Simon’s eyes lit up. Uh oh.

“You’re right! I know just who to give him to. Where’s Cassandra?”

“I have no idea.” This was a lie. Cassandra was training in the courtyard. She was beating the stuffing out of a training dummy and maybe pretending it was the darling inquisitor.

“Maybe she’s training. I’ll get her.” Simon tossed him the reins. Dorian caught them reflexively. Simon rushed off. Well, he’d tried. Good enough. Varric could deal with him.

Dorian said to the horse, “It’s probably for the best that he’s not going to try riding you. I have the sneaking suspicion that you’d throw him out of sheer pride.” The horse snorted in agreement. It was too well-trained to check his robes for sugar lumps, but it did eye him very strongly and whicker suggestively.

He led it to the horsemaster. Dennet whistled appreciatively and ran his hands along the barding. “Never in all my days did I think I would handle such barding, never mind the quality of the breed. A purebed lineage, this one. Inquisition better not disappoint. The bar’s been set very, very high.” Dennet fixed him with a stern look. “He learned to ride yet, Tevinter?”

It took a certain amount of effort not to bristle defensively on Simon’s behalf. “He’s improving every day.”

Dennet snorted and took the reins from him.

“By the Maker, what is it?” Dorian turned to see Simon pulling Cassandra along. Varric trotted after them. The dwarf gave him a ‘what are you thinking?’ look. Dorian spread his hands out as if to say, ‘well, I’d like to see you deal with him.’

Simon gestured at the armoured horse. “I thought you’d like him.”

Cassandra drew up short as though she’d been smacked on the head with a frying pan. “You thought what?”

Simon ambled closer to her. “It’s a present. An apology present. To say that I’m sorry for lying to you. I really didn’t want to. I just thought, you know….” He gave her his most charming smile. Dorian privately thought that it made him look more like an earnest puppy than anything. Which was pretty charming, in all honesty.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “I’m not a child, Simon. You can’t erase your lies by giving me presents.” She still gave the horse an admiring glance. It really was a very impressive mount.

Simon looked injured. “Oh. Okay, then.” He turned away from her and went to the horse. “Maybe Cullen will want him.”

“Cullen!” She ran forward. “I never said I didn’t want him!”

The inquisitor sidestepped her. “Does that mean you’re not angry at me anymore?”

Cassandra ran her hands wonderingly over the horse’s armoured snout. Dorian stood at the perfect angle to see her girlish smile. She ducked her head a bit. “I am not without reason,” she said haltingly. She turned and fidgeted with her gauntlets. “Thank you, Inquisitor. He really is beautiful. I… When I was a little girl, I always wanted a horse like this.”

Simon relaxed and beamed at her. “I’m glad you like him. And you’re doing me a favour, really. I think he’s a bit much for me, you know? Besides, I don’t want to make Chestnut feel bad.”

Dorian laughed. “Don’t tell me that you named your bay ‘Chestnut.’”

Simon looked offended. “Of course I did. Because she’s a chestnut. Not a bay. She’s brown, isn’t she?”

In a perfect world, Dorian would have drawn him forward and kissed him. He restricted himself to fondly shaking his head.

Dennet came forward. “Better get that barding off him before he overheats. I’ll brush him clean.”

Cassandra snatched the brush out of his hands. “I can do that,” she snapped.


	3. Assarash

The next addition to the stables came, surprisingly enough, from the qun. According to Simon, Bull had swaggered into the war room one day and said that his bosses were sending over a gift of sorts. It was all very suspicious to Dorian. He wondered if the qun would propose an alliance in the future and shuddered uneasily at the thought. Josephine was delighted.

On the day the ‘present’ arrived, Dorian had stayed put in the library. He had absolutely no desire to tangle with the qunari and their schemes. When Simon came running up the stairs saying, “Dorian! You’ve got to see this!” he regretfully set his book aside and let the inquisitor pull him into the courtyard.

A group of servants tried to wrestle away an alarming amount of enormous statues of naked qunari. The quartermaster exclaimed over some schematics they’d sent over. “Wouldn’t they get cold?” she said to anyone who would listen. Simon led him right past them. Dorian really shouldn’t have been encouraging him this way by letting Simon drag him around by the hand. It was for the best that their feelings stay hidden. They’d only managed to stamp away most of the horrible rumours about the inquisitor cavorting with demons and such. Simon had done a lot of that himself by leading them to Skyhold. It was incredible how fickle the public could be. And how ungrateful the mages had been. It still angered him to hear the odd disparaging remark a few stubborn mages insisted on saying now and then.

It was imperative that nobody know about his feelings for the inquisitor. He would be the magister taking advantage of him. Anyone clever would go out of their way to befriend him. He was already starting to adopt the habit of giving extravagant presents.

Simon pointed at a new horse that a stablehand bustled around. Simon turned to him and smiled boyishly. “Isn’t he handsome?”

Dorian bit back the flirtatious remark that sprung to the tip of his tongue. “Extremely.”

“Think he can see through that chanfron?” Wonderful. That’s exactly what he needed right now. Simon saying things in Orlesian.

“Probably not.” Simon went over to rescue the poor horse from its blinding headwear. Dorian tilted his head thoughtfully. If Simon were to speak to him in another language, he would prefer it to be Tevene. He kept his smooth mask in place, although his mouth watered at the thought of Simon pressing against him and whispering wicked Tevene phrases into his ear. He would look good in proper robes too. An emerald green with a black trim, perhaps. He’d be stunning, especially with some kohl smudged artfully around his eyes.

Dorian doubted that he would ever see Simon dress that way, which was a shame. Simon turned his nose up at robes and dressed like a farmhand. It hadn’t occurred to him that as the inquisitor, he was well within his right to order lavish fabrics to wear. Perhaps he could coax Simon to speak to him in Tevene, though. The inquisitor had mentioned that he could read Tevene once. They had a few Tevene books in the library. Dorian was sure that he could get Simon to look at one of them with him. Then he'd ‘accidently’ switch languages and maybe Simon would follow suit.

Simon finally prised the head-piece off the horse. He began to murmur sweet nothings to it. A surge of unreasonable jealousy scorched through his bones and Dorian left before he could embarrass himself. Honestly. These maudlin, romantic thoughts were unbecoming. This would hurt when it ended. He wasn’t doing himself any favours by pretending.

 

Because the world was cruel and the Maker loved to mock him, Simon had let Bull pour some foul qunari beverage down his throat. Dorian glowered at the unrepentant qunari when he saw how drunk Simon had gotten. “Maraas-lok,” Bull said proudly. As though knowing the name of the acidic, fuming drink made anything better.

Simon giggled and blushed as though the hulking lout was the funniest thing in all of creation. “It tastes awful,” he announced to the room. As though that was a good thing. Primly, Dorian sat next to him. The inquisitor immediately listed over and leaned against him. He blinked muzzily. “Hi.”

“Yes, hello!” Dorian carefully plucked the cup out of his unresisting fingers.

Varric laughed and jabbed Simon. “You know, when we got Blondie drunk enough, sometimes Justice would come out and play.”

Simon giggled and shook his head. “Valour wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t like it when I drink. Says a true warrior’s got to keep his mind sharp and be prepared for anything.” Then he paused and his eyes glazed over a bit. “I’m telling him. I don’t know. I’ll ask.” He focused on Varric. “Valour wants to know if Justice liked getting drunk.”

Varric’s expression turned a bit wistful. “I don’t think Blondie’s tagalong liked anything.”

Simon straightened suddenly. “I’m giving Bull the horse. Assarasssss. Ass. Asshorse.”

Bull roared with laughter and pounded the table with a meaty fist. “I’ll remind you of that when you’re sober. You’re gonna regret saying that in the morning.”

Simon shook his head firmly. Then he groaned and fell on top of Dorian again. He resisted the foolish, maudlin urge to smooth his hair back. “You’re my friend. I like giving things to friends. I never had friends or things to give people. Now I have friends and,” he waved his hand about drunkenly, “things for presents. So now I get to give presents. It’s fun. I like making people happy.”

Bull sighed wistfully. “I used to have an Assarash like that in Seheron.”

“Well, shit,” Varric said. “Go nuts, Glowbug. Enjoy yourself.”

The inquisitor giggled again. Dorian sighed through his nose. Feeling a drunk Simon press against him was both an exquisite delight and an exquisite torture. All those flushed, languid limbs and he couldn’t do anything about them without endangering them. Well, that was a lie. It wasn’t really about endangering them. It was about Simon’s respectability. How could he run the inquisition while people whispered about how he was fool enough to let a Tevinter magister prowl around him like some horrid beast? Even when he was in the south, he managed to become infatuated with the worst people. Naturally. “Yes, well,” he said. “I’d better rescue him from the horrible influences here before he decides to give Skyhold itself to a waitress.”

He slung an arm around Simon’s waist and pulled him up. Simon grinned drunkenly. “You’re pretty. And you smell nice.”

“And you are extremely drunk,” Dorian said archly. “And the word is ‘handsome,’ if you please. I’m not some blushing maiden.”

That was a mistake. “You’re handsome.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh, as though his blood wasn’t singing. “I know. It’s a curse.”

Bull chuckled darkly. “Yeah, you take him to bed. Take him real good.”

Dorian shot the hulking lout a venomous glare. He would have let go of Simon if he had any confidence at all in the inquisitor’s ability to walk in a straight line. “Must you say things like that? Honestly.” He guided Simon out of the tavern.

Dorian had become familiar with Skyhold while he’d been scouring hidden corners for books. He took them through all the shadowed, private routes so nobody would see them and think he was carting the beloved inquisitor off to sacrifice to demons.

He half-pushed, half-poured Simon into bed. That would have been the frustrating end of it if Simon hadn’t snagged him by a buckle and pulled him down. While he was off balance, Simon pushed him over and clambered on top of him. He grinned as though this was a momentous achievement. “Hi.”

He ran his hands through Dorian’s hair, and he couldn’t help closing his eyes and letting Simon muss it up. Normally they only kissed when Dorian lost control completely because of some ridiculously adorable thing Simon did. The last time had been when Simon had cornered him for a lecture on siccing fearlings on idiot workers. He’d been so adamant about not ‘abusing spirits’ that Dorian had dragged him into a hidden corner of the library and shoved him against a bookshelf until Simon had forgotten his stern affront in favour of breathy sighs and whimpers.

Simon pressing him into a bed was dangerous territory. Extremely dangerous territory. Especially because Simon was normally so pliant during their clandestine meetings. Granted, that might have been because Dorian kept ambushing him in a whirlwind of tongue and teeth. He had no regrets. Worries, perhaps. But no regrets. Simon kissed him clumsily. Although sloppy, his eagerness set Dorian’s blood aflame.

Simon writhed sweetly on top of him and that really wasn’t fair. He plucked at Dorian’s clothing. Dorian let himself enjoy the southern mage’s hands stroking restlessly across his chest until he realized that Simon was trying to take his shirt off and failing horribly. He drew back and examined the buckles, frowning in concentration. Dorian couldn’t allow that. He knew his limits. He hadn’t gone this long without regular sex in a while and once clothing started coming off the night wouldn’t end until he’d pounded Simon into the mattress. And then Simon might leave because that was what always happened. Intellectually, he’d realized by now that things were somewhat different in the south. Emotionally, it proved impossible to just dismantle everything he’d learned throughout his life.

He flipped them over, which turned out to be easier then he’d expected because of how delightfully uncoordinated Simon was. He grabbed Simon’s wandering hands and pinned them to the sheets. Simon groaned wantonly and tried to rub up against him like some enormous cat. Dorian wondered how he’d react to restraints. Some silk scarves tying him down to the bedposts. He bit his lip. Perhaps a little kiss wouldn’t hurt. He shoved his tongue down Simon’s throat. When this ended, it was going to tear him to pieces.

Dorian slipped away and retreated to a safe distance. Simon giggled and held his arms out. “Come back.”

Dorian disguised his bruising heart with a playful smirk. “Now, now. You’re going to have a terrible hangover in the morning. Get some rest.” He couldn’t risk bedding Simon and then losing him. He needed to drag this out for as long as possible. He walked away. It felt like losing a limb.


	4. Red Hart

All of this flag waving really was tiresome. The fact that Simon didn’t realize that the stream of mounts was flag waving only made him even more endearing. When it came to manipulation and politics, he really was hopeless. None of these myriad groups had cared when the Inquisition was small. Now that it had risen from the ashes of a near defeat, everyone cared about it. The scramble to ally themselves with the rising power of the Inquisition was honestly quite clever.

The next person to break and wave a flag was a Dalish clan that lived a surprising length away. They must have sent the red hart over as soon as they’d heard about the Inquisition’s resurrection. Dorian had first heard of it when he’d overheard Simon talking with Solas in the rotunda. Dorian had leaned casually against the railing and listened in unabashedly. Simon had come to Solas for some help translating an elven phrase that the Dalish clan had included in their message. The closest translation they could get was ‘May your freedom grant you victory.’ Simon had been ridiculously pleased with this. He was also pleased that the Dalish clan recognized that religion didn’t matter in this case when there was a giant hole in the sky.

Personally, Dorian thought it was a particularly ingratiating letter and the most transparent case of flag-waving that he’d ever seen. He also disliked the general tone of the letter. “If nothing else, we would have you sure of foot in your journey toward victory.” Honestly. Did they really think that Simon’s Inquisition hadn’t been able to find good mounts before now? Simon had done a wonderful job building this group up. The implication that Simon had been sitting around waiting for some random backwoods Dalish clan to help him out irritated him. He still waited patiently in his nook for Simon to come up shouting, “Dorian, come look!” Once he did, Dorian put his book away and let the inquisitor drag him off to the stables.

Solas stood there, admiring the hart. Dennet brushed the creature’s coat and looked insufferably pleased with himself. He gestured at the beast. “This is going to be the pride of the stable. Can’t find anything more sure of foot or attuned to its rider. Damn majestic beast.”

Dorian had to admit that it was majestic, in a backwoods deer kind of way. A few elves were scattered around, staring at it in admiration. The red hart tossed its antlered head and a few of them gasped and sighed. Solas stared at it wistfully.

Simon gave it to him. Because of course he did. “I couldn’t possibly take this,” he said. “Besides, he likes you.”

Solas had closed his eyes in quiet pleasure and stroked the hart’s nose. “I will name it Athim. Thank you for this gift, Inquisitor.”

Dennet snorted and rolled his eyes. “You want to match this creature, elf? Grow some bloody wings.”

Dorian laughed. “The way you keep throwing mounts at people. Everyone here will be tripping over themselves at this rate.”

Simon blushed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. It stuck every which way. Delightful. Even dressed as a farmhand, he looked irresistible.

“You have been giving away a lot of noble animals, Inquisitor,” Solas said.

“Well, I can’t ride all of them, can I? Chestnut would be jealous.” He smiled and petted the red hart. “Besides, I’m still not that good at riding yet. The mounts we’d be getting would throw me off in no time.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Chestnut had already thrown him several times. Every now and then the spirited bay decided that it’d had enough of Simon’s ‘I’ll just ask it where to go politely’ attitude and sent him to the ground out of sheer pride. He was far too prone to holding the reins loosely (“Well, I don’t want to hurt her.”) and letting the horse wander about. “I don’t want to tell her what to do,” Simon said every time Dorian admonished him. “People should get to choose where they want to go.”

It was a lovely attitude, but it didn’t apply very well to horse riding. Dorian had once said, “The whole point of riding is to get the horse to take you where you want to go.”

Simon had looked positively injured and stroked Chestnut’s mane protectively. “I could never,” he’d said, as though Dorian had just suggested that he ride the beast off a cliff. Chestnut had thanked him for his progressive attitude towards horse riding by immediately throwing him over a fence. If nothing else, Dorian had been getting a lot of practice casting barriers. Especially at a target hurtling through the air. Somehow, Simon managed to look surprised every time the horse threw him. As though it didn’t happen at least once a week.

Dorian just hoped that whoever sent them a mount next sent them something normal. Just a regular horse. Maybe then, Simon would actually keep it.


	5. Bog Unicorn

The next group turned out to be very ominously named ‘The Collective.’ Simon had read the letter and promptly lost his mind. He’d ran into Dorian and thrust the letter at him, nearly dancing with excitement. “I can’t believe it! The Mages Collective! Isn’t this incredible?”

He plucked the letter from Simon’s fingers and scanned it. “A tad suspicious, don’t you think? What sort of thing are they even sending here?”

Simon sighed in exasperation. “Dorian, sometimes I think you don’t know _anything_. Let me explain.”

Apparently, the Mages Collective was a group of southern mages that tried to hide from the prying eyes of the Chantry and its templars. It used to be composed of apostates and Circle mages, but technically all southern mages were apostates now. Simon had never dared to become a member, but he’d always admired their work. They were vigilantes. They were smugglers. They were a shadow-guild. They were Simon’s childhood heroes. They’d also sent him a signet ring that marked him as a member. Simon clutched it tightly. “Isn’t this incredible?”

He looked up at Dorian, nearly buzzing with excitement. His eyes shined. He glowed with happiness. Dorian snagged him and dragged him to a hidden corner of the library. By now, Simon knew what that meant. It gratified him to see Simon squirm with anticipation. This really would hurt when it stopped. Dorian shoved him against a bookshelf anyways.

 

Later, they discovered exactly what sort of creature the Mages Collective had sent. They hadn’t sent it so much as left it directly in the path of several horrified scouts with a cryptic note explaining the beast’s origins.

It had once belonged to an evil marauder and they hoped it would inspire fear into those who would oppose the inquisitor. Cullen winced when he saw it. “Maker’s breath.”

“That thing won’t just inspire fear in your enemies,” Dorian said. “It’ll also inspire fear in your allies and random villagers trying to live their lives in peace. Right now, Elaina and Seanna are terrified. They’re looking in our direction right now. They feel a chill running down their spine and have no idea why.”

Simon looked affronted on behalf of the horrific, undead horse. “Oh, stop it. She’s perfect.”

“I don’t want to know how you know it’s a girl.”

It had even managed to shake Josephine. “Surely, you’re not going to _keep it?_ ”

Simon stroked its decaying flesh. “Of course I am! Isn’t she the sweetest thing ever?”

Cullen gestured at it. “It’s an abomination!”

“So? She’s beautiful. Besides, she’s already told me her name. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Wonderful. They trailed after Simon helplessly as he led the beast to the stables. “Inquisitor, I’m not sure an undead horse is really the statement you want to be making. Whatever happened to the hart? That was a very majestic creature.” Josephine’s tone turned pleading. She clasped her hands together.

Cullen nodded. “Yes, it was.”

Simon waved airily at them. “I gave him to Solas. Besides, Valour likes her too.”

Well, if the spirit of his liked it, there was no way they were prying the rotting beast away from him. Josephine turned to him, as though he could possibly do anything about this. “Dorian. Do something. You’re a necromancer. Surely you can persuade him.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

Simon ignored them. He had that glazed look that meant he was communicating with Valour. Dennet caught sight of the strange procession, swore profusely and stormed up to them. “What the bloody hell is that?”

Dorian raised his hands defensively. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t raise it.”

The horsemaster stared at it. The other horses in the stable caught its scent and began whinnying fearfully. Simon frowned and looked positively injured. “I know it’s upsetting to see a spirit bound like this, but I think you guys are being a bit dramatic.”

Cullen threw his hands up in the air and stormed off. Josephine said, “That is not what we meant. We’re just trying to protect your reputation. This horse is… rotting.”

Simon looked confused. “No, she’s not. And the letter was clear. She’s a bog unicorn.”

Josephine sighed and shook her head. She turned to him again. “Dorian, please. Do something.” Exhausted, she walked away.

“I don’t know why,” Dorian said, “she thinks I can do anything about this.”

Dennet snorted. “Everyone knows you two are fucking. Just make him get rid of it. Damn thing chills my short hairs. I’ll stable it if you make me, but I’m not going near it.” He shuddered and fled.

“We are not fucking,” Dorian snapped at his retreating back. “Simon, tell him.”

Simon wasn’t listening. Simon had wandered off somewhere and had taken the ‘bog unicorn’ with him. He heard a horrified shriek from the west. Dorian sighed and went towards it. He followed the trail of terrified, trembling people out of Skyhold.

Dorian smiled charmingly at a pale worker staring blankly into the distance as though someone had cheerfully paraded a rotting, undead horse right in front of him and wandered off without saying a word about it. “Have you seen the inquisitor and some creature straight out of nightmares, by any chance? I’d be ever so grateful if you could point the way.”

He very helpfully flung an arm out and gestured at the bridge out of Skyhold. He babbled a bit and ran off dramatically. Naturally.

Dorian found Simon and the bog unicorn just off the side of the road a few feet away from the bridge. Simon grinned at him, as though it was the best day of his life. “Isn’t she incredible? We think the body was fatally wounded by a rage demon.” He pointed at a chunk of scorched flesh. “And her rider probably put her out of her misery. A spirit of freedom possessed the body. We’re just going to break the bindings.”

“Excuse me?”

Simon had already entered a sort of trance state. The bog unicorn whickered appreciatively and put its snout in his hands. He mouthed arcane words and ignited. Blue flames licked at his feet. Power swirled about him like a cloak. His aura turned thick and charged with energy.

“Really?” Dorian said, exasperated. “You’re going to do this right here? Right outside Skyhold.”

Simon didn’t answer. He probably wasn’t able to hear him. Dorian probably could have stripped naked and danced suggestively right in front of him and he would stand there chanting. Dorian sighed and made himself comfortable. He cast a barrier on Simon so when this inevitably turned out to be a horrible idea, the inquisitor wouldn’t be skewered.

What would his old instructors say if they knew that this boy, who dressed like a farmhand and refused to admit that he owned a cat ‘because people belong to themselves’ had succeeded in finally getting him to practice casting barriers? They would have laughed. For hours. Maybe thrown a party that someone had finally managed to tame him or some such nonsense. Dorian wrinkled his nose at the thought. Somehow, he’d managed to become infatuated with someone who called cats ‘people’ and insisted that spirits had distinctive personalities. Well, that one was probably true. Talking with Valour had opened his eyes in that regard. And Cole definitely had a personality.

Simon’s habit of collecting strays was endearing, in a way. Even if that meant that he insisted on keeping mangy, snarling cats around. And apparently, horrific undead creatures. Dorian did raise undead, it was true, but that was completely different. It was in battle, for one thing. And he didn’t keep them afterwards like ghastly pets.

Dorian ended up keeping a continual barrier over Simon for nearly an hour. He vowed that he’d carry lyrium potions with him from now on. Just as he started to feel very tired, Simon gasped. The horse collapsed in a pile of rotted meat and bone. Simon turned to him and beamed. “She’s free again,” he said. “Who binds a spirit of freedom anyways? That’s just cruel.”

“At least it’s go-“ The pile of decaying tissue sprang up again and reared, whinnying triumphantly. Simon squealed and tackled it in a hug. Chestnut always rolled its eyes and trotted away when Simon did that. Dorian was convinced that one of these days the bay would trample him just to drive home that most horses were not interested in roughhousing. This one, because it was a crime against nature in more ways than one, pranced about happily and nuzzled Simon with near-violent enthusiasm. Dorian’s heart leapt into his throat as the sword blade swung every which way. Miraculously, Simon dodged its good natured attempt at killing him and flung his arms around its neck.

“Freedom! You came back!” Simon swung himself up onto the horse. “Want to go racing? I bet we can beat you this time.” His eyes glittered. He looked radiant.

Kaffas. When this ended – if this ended – it wouldn’t just tear him up. It would break him completely. The smart thing to do would be to reject him now, get very drunk and go sleep with a random stableboy. He would resign himself to moving in Simon’s orbit and never touching him again. Dorian had never done the smart thing. “Of course, I’m going to race you. And I’m going to win.”

Dorian’s imperial warmblood was fast as running water. It was beautiful, imposing and majestic. It was relentless.

Simon made it look like a nag. He leaned down over Freedom’s mane. Dorian’s heart caught in his throat again. He looked otherworldly that way, eyes still glowing slightly from Valour’s lingering power, dusty red hair overlapping his mount’s flame-red mane. He sat atop the beast expertly, as though he had no need of silly things like saddles or reins. Perhaps he didn’t with this creature. The look in his eyes turned downright wicked. “We can speak with her,” he said, voice pitched deliciously low. “We can hear her thoughts.” He looked like some ethereal creature that Dorian wanted – needed – to drag onto the ground and straddle.

He called on a heroic amount of willpower and managed to stay seated on his horse. He deserved a medal. “That sounds delightful. Shall we run our usual course, then?”

Simon leaned lower over his mount’s neck. He whispered in its ear, “What do you say? Want to race?” The creature coiled like some great jungle cat and shot forward as though loosed from a bow. Dorian sent his own mount forward.

His imperial warmblood may have been fast, but Simon and the bog unicorn flowed over the terrain as smoothly and inexorably as a river. They sprang lightly over a fallen tree with a wild laugh. Dorian felt clumsier than he’d ever been in his entire life as his mare churned through the snow in a desperate bid to catch up. Simon rode better than he ever had. Maybe all he had needed was the right mount. He didn’t even care about winning anymore. He just wanted to follow in Simon’s wake and admire him like a lovestruck fool.

Simon won and his steed reared up in celebration, hooves slicing through the air. “I won,” he said, cheeks flushed with victory.

Dorian drew up beside him, breathless. “Yes,” he said, voice low. “You certainly did.”


	6. Spoils of the Avvar

Dorian tore through Skyhold in abject panic. He had no idea where Simon was. That was bad. That was very bad. He needed to find him as soon as possible. He did find Varric standing on some windy corner of the battlements. Varric spread his arms out. “Where’d Glowbug run off to?” he asked, exasperated. “He was supposed to meet me up here an hour ago.”

Dorian leaned against the wall, out of breath. Somewhere between dashing through the stables and running up the stairs he’d gotten a stitch in his side. The two figures standing beside Varric with crossed arms were renowned. There was an equally fierce mabari too. Lovely. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find him.” He waved a hand at Varric’s guests. “You’ll be pleased to know that the Champion of Kirkwall and her elven paramour are not the most interesting things to arrive in Skyhold today. You recall when our darling inquisitor led us all over the Hinterlands searching for stanzas of that horrid poem?”

Marian scowled. “Get to the point.”

He laughed a bit helplessly. “And then we discovered Tyrrda Bright-Axe’s staff and he insisted on sending it back to the Avvar because it was the right thing to do or some other such nonsense?”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “I was there, you know.”

“Well, the Avvar decided to send us a present. And wait till you see what it is.”

Varric started to look distinctly nervous. “What is it?”

“Remember the bog unicorn?”

Varric looked horrified. “No. Tell me they didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. They did. That’s why I have to find him. So I can drag him off to some dark corner before he sees them and decides he needs to keep them.”

_“Them?”_

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “We encountered an undead horse on the way here.”

“Ah, yes,” Dorian said. “That would be the bog unicorn.” Simon had refused to stable the bog unicorn, because of course he had. He’d claimed, in an injured tone, that he couldn’t just lock her up. That would be cruel. No, instead she would roam the land around Skyhold so she could run freely and terrify as many scouts, pilgrims and messengers as she desired.

He didn’t see any blood on the fearsome duo. Fresh blood, at least. Then again, an undead horse might not bleed. The flesh was quite withered. “Is the horrid beast still with us?”

“Yes.” Fenris sounded as though he regretted that fact.

“Well, thank the Maker for small mercies and all that.” Dorian sighed and pushed away from the wall. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an inquisitor with an affinity for horrible monstrosities to find.”

“We want to meet him,” Hawke said.

“Yes, well. Let’s find him before the Avvar do.”

 

They did not. Not by a long shot. Dennet did find them, though. The horsemaster had caught sight of them and roared, “Tevinter!”

Dorian sighed and smiled charmingly at the man storming towards him. He had purpled with fury. “You haven’t seen the inquisitor, have you?”

Dennet puffed with rage and made an incoherent sound like a kettle about to explode. He reached out, hands contorted into claws as though about to strangle him. Then he saw Hawke and reconsidered. He gestured angrily. They followed him to the courtyard. Ah. There he was. Dorian cursed savagely in Tevene.

A crowd of gaping people stood at a careful distance – close enough to see clearly, but far enough to clear out if anything drew blood. In the middle, it was total chaos. A group of laughing Avvar lounged about with five enormous creatures. The ropes around their necks looked like afterthoughts and not like they could actually be used to restrain the animals should they decide to run amok. It was impossible to say which one drew the eye first. They all looked imposing and mean. The horse bared its teeth at the nervous stableboy trying to get close to it. The war nug and the hart tossed their heads proudly. The dracolisk hissed intermittently and showed everyone its needle teeth. And there was yet another undead horse with a sword through its skull. The fact that they were all daubed in black and white paint didn’t make them look any nicer.

“Well, shit,” Varric said.

“Quite.” Simon bounced around cheerfully, draped in furs, because of course he was. Legions of terrified stablehands tried to herd the animals towards the stable without getting anywhere near them.

“I’m a horsemaster,” Dennet snapped at him. “That means horses. Those aren’t horses!”

Dorian pointed at the stallion that appeared to be trying to bite a frightened stablehand’s fingers off. “Technically that is a horse.”

“That damn thing’s feral! Make him get rid of them, before they kill someone.”

Naturally. “I’m not sure why,” he said wearily, “you think I have any say in whatever murderous animals he decides to keep.”

Dennet glared at him murderously. “You’re a fucking bastard.” He stormed off, shouting orders in a vain effort to restore some order. The bog unicorn wandered in and poked around. Because of course it did.

Simon chose that exact moment to realize that he was there. “Dorian, come look!” He bounced over and grabbed his arm. Simon shook him. “Aren’t they incredible? This is the best thing that’s ever happened.” He ran off to throw himself at the giant war nug. It promptly bellowed at him and knocked him to the ground. Simon laughed wildly and scrambled up. He tugged on its ears. It pulled his hair.

Josephine fought her way through the crowd. She dodged the snapping dracolisk and veered expertly away from the painted elk that grumbled menacingly at her. She managed to snag the inquisitor by the arm and draw him away from the war nug. He squirmed out of her grasp and bounded over to the feral horse, which had forgone snapping at fingers in favour of half-rearing up threateningly and preparing to kick someone’s chest in.

Josephine came over to him, face stern. “Dorian.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“Dorian, you were supposed to find him.”

“Well, I decided to be fashionably late.”

She put her head in her hands. “He wants to keep them. _Help_.”

Dorian waved a hand in a gesture that managed to encompass the entire courtyard. “No, Simon. Please stop. You’re scaring everyone. See? Completely out of my control.”

“I’ll get Bull then. Maybe he’ll be able to do something.”

Well, that was uncalled for. “Such tactics,” he said archly, “are beneath you.” He layered a barrier over himself and strode into the chaos as if he owned it. Besides, he had to do something. Marian Hawke glared out at the chaos in stern disapproval. He had the horrible feeling that if he didn’t do something, she’d go in and start cracking heads together. He snapped out Simon’s name.

Simon bounded over, grinning delightedly. “Did you see the-“

“I realize that you have a weakness for terrible, fanged beasts but that doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to suffer.”

Simon looked injured. He looked far too adorable in those furs. He looked soft and cuddly. Focus, Pavus. “They’re just spirited.” He grabbed Dorian’s hand and led him far too close to the dracolisk for comfort. Simon reached out to pet the horrid beast and it lunged for his throat. Reflexively, Dorian snapped a barrier around him. Simon twisted just out of reach. “See?” Simon said, as though it hadn’t just tried to kill him.

“Can they be spirited in the stables? Is there any way that’s possible? You’re giving poor Josephine a heart attack.”

Simon looked around, thoughtfully. He turned slightly crestfallen, as though just realizing that the latest additions to his horrific menagerie were actively trying to kill people. “Oh. I guess I should do something about this, huh?”

_“Yes.”_

Simon’s idea of doing something about it was to politely ask the animals if they wouldn’t mind going to the stables. Amazingly enough, it worked on the dead horse. The creature perked up (nearly skewering a fleeing worker) and trotted over to the stables.

The rest of the inner circle had arrived at that point. Cullen asked loudly if he should get some soldiers in here. Dorian doubted that a battalion could get these animals under control. The Avvar decided that their presence was no longer needed and sauntered out of Skyhold, laughing all the while. The Iron Bull waded through the crowd of ogling commoners. He grabbed the elk’s reins, which proved to be a mistake. It immediately trumpeted and tried to skewer him. He swore fiercely at it and released the creature. It leapt clear over a workers head (she screamed very helpfully) and bounded off. Dorian did the only thing he could think of and hexed it. Strength sapped from its limbs, the elk staggered a bit and decided to lie down. It’d be hard to get it to go anywhere, but at least it hadn’t bounded right into the castle itself. Or into the tavern. There were many places in Skyhold that shouldn’t have an enormous, murderous elk in them.

A cluster of soldiers had been found. They were trying to herd the feral horse into the stables. The herding involved cautiously drawn shields. Dorian decided that that was probably a lost cause and he could only focus on one lunatic at a time. He noted that Fenris and Marian had found a safe place in the crowd to watch the chaos. He glowered at them. Fenris stared back as if to say, ‘You want us to help? Come make us, bitch.’

Simon caught sight of the unabashedly terrified soldiers and made an odd, distressed sound. Dorian had a sudden, vivid mental image of Simon being trampled to death. He snagged him when he tried to intervene. “Why don’t you deal with the giant thing with hands?” Simon obligingly went over to the war nug. He tapped it on the shoulder. It bodily picked him up by the waist and waved him around a bit.

“Oh, um. Hi,” Simon said. Because of course that is exactly how he’d react when a giant war nug decided that he would make an excellent rattle. “I don’t have any treats.”

The war nug snuffled in disappointment and set him down. He took the creature’s reins and pointed to the stables. “Want to go over there? Let’s go over there. It’ll be fun.” The war nug bellowed doubtfully, but lumbered obediently after him. Perhaps it was the furs that Simon wore. The beasts might have been trained to only take orders from Avvar. He distinctly hoped that wasn’t the case, because if it was then they’d probably kill Dennet at some point.

Dennet stormed over to the soldiers, swearing viciously at them. “Get away from that horse! I’ll deal with it! It’s the only bloody horse here, that’s for sure!” He grabbed the reins. “Get over here, you feral beast.”

The horse snapped at him, but jostled along when he pulled it away.

Now that the elk was down for the count, a few stablehands approached it nervously. It tossed its head and one of them yelped. The damn thing had drawn blood. The dracolisk snapped to attention and growled. It stalked over to the bloodied stablehand. Dorian grimaced and edged closer, staff at the ready to bring it down before it killed someone.

Unfortunately, Simon got there first. He tackled the thing and flung his arms around its neck. It froze and hissed uncertainly. Its eyes rolled wildly. “You’re very pretty, aren’t you?” Simon cooed. “Come over here, okay?”

It made a peculiar sputtering sound and danced a few feet to the side, dragging the inquisitor along with it. “You do realize,” Dorian said, horrified, “that that thing is carnivorous. It eats meat.”

Simon looked honestly baffled. “Lots of people eat meat.”

Dorian gamely decided to ignore the fact that the inquisitor had just referred to an enormous, carnivorous, foul-tempered lizard as ‘people.’

Thankfully, he let go of the dracolisk. It stared at Simon in horrified fascination, as though he was some new and potentially dangerous kind of human. It was a fair assessment in all honesty. Simon smiled proudly. “See?” he said to nobody in particular. “You’ve just got to be nice to them. Follow me, please.” He walked over to the stables, not even bothering to take the reins. The dracolisk blinked and followed him a bit uncertainly, hissing quietly as though in deep thought.

Simon came out of the stables with the new undead horse following behind him. “You’re not keeping them,” Josephine said firmly.

Simon smiled at her. “Don’t be silly. I’ve already named them. Besides, they’re the sweetest things.”

“I’ve got a ritual to perform.” He patted the undead horse’s snout. “This poor thing isn’t going to be bound for another second.”

Josephine turned to him. “Dorian, do something,” she pleaded.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” he asked.

Hawke looked at him. “Aren’t you two in a relationship?”

Dorian did his best to look unaffected. “Well, rumour does spread quickly, doesn’t it? The inquisitor and I are not in any sort of relationship. We’re only friends. Friendship is a lovely concept that I’d assumed you southern barbarians knew about.”

“We’re just friends?” Simon sounded honestly confused. A thrill of horror crept down his spine. It took a lifetime of practice to keep an expression of careful indifference. He opened his mouth to speak. To say something casually flippant. Simon clapped his hands on Dorian’s cheeks and stared into his eyes. He leaned in, eyes narrowed as though trying to reach into his head and pick out his thoughts. Dorian froze. Damn it. Was this the moment it ended? Painfully and publically? He didn’t want it to be over. They hadn’t even done anything yet. They’d been positively chaste. There was still so much he wanted to do and surprisingly enough most of it wasn’t even sexual. He tried to keep his breathing normal. He didn’t trust himself enough to speak. Whatever Simon had been looking for, he’d found it. “Later, we’re going to have a long talk,” Simon said seriously, “about why you think that. But right now I have to unbind this spirit.”

Simon kissed him chastely on the forehead. It felt like he’d driven a knife into Dorian’s heart. Dorian jerked away as though he’d been burned. Simon watched him carefully. Then he smiled and turned back to the undead horse. He cooed at it. His eyes glazed over and blue flames burst into life at his heels. His aura pulsed out, thick and charged with energy. Hawke growled and strode over. She reached out and grabbed his shoulder. She spun him around to face her. Fenris prowled alongside her warily. His lyrium markings flickered dangerously.

“Don’t even bother trying,” Dorian managed to force out. He tried to pull his usual manner of charm and wit about him, but it slipped through his fingers. His voice came out wrong. As though he was trying to speak right after someone had decided to try strangling him. “He’s in a trance state. You can’t break him out of it.”

She shook him hard. Simon’s head lolled a bit, but he didn’t notice. She could have tossed him off a cliff and Dorian doubted it would have stopped him. “I want to talk to him,” Marian said harshly. “Now.”

“Talk all you want,” Dorian snapped. “Just don’t expect him to listen.”

He stormed off to his quarters.

 

Or at least he tried to. He ended up in Simon’s quarters, because even now or perhaps especially now, he couldn’t stop following in Simon’s wake. What a lovestruck fool he was. Dorian paced restlessly, sparks snapping off his twitching fingers. He tossed a gout of flames into the fireplace and coaxed the flames up until they blazed. It didn’t make him feel any better.

He threw himself on the bed and groaned. It was all Simon’s fault, really. Sweet, wild, unpredictable Simon. Simon who was frustratingly innocent one moment and then coiling with heady power the next. Simon who became flustered when Dorian leaned too far into his personal space yet would run through the woods to talk to spirits like some fey creature from a storybook if you left him alone for too long. Simon who had a powerhouse of magical energy at his fingertips and was frustratingly cautious about using it for things like heating cold tea or fetching books off tall shelves. In Tevinter, they used magic for nearly everything. It was a mark of pride if you could afford to do little things like light candles instead of bothering to look for matches. After all, you had a powerful, Maker-granted ability. Of course you were expected to flaunt it. Simon’s hesitance to use his abilities was bizarre in the extreme.

It had been bad enough before his secret had come out. He’d been a puzzle then, and Dorian had never been able to resist a good mystery, especially when wrapped in such a pleasing form. Not that he was handsome in the conventional sense. Too gangly and stick-thin for one, even though Josephine had been trying to feed him up. No, if he drew attention at all (and he did, continuously) it was because he was just a touch off beat with those around him. It pulled the eye, in the same way that someone dancing at a ball would draw attention if he couldn’t match his steps to the music’s rhythm.

Now that he knew about how powerful Simon really was, well. He was irresistible. He was a force of nature. Not as a storm, but as the spring was. Gentle and warm, but inexorable and there was nothing you could do about it. It simply came when it pleased and forced life to blossom in the dreariest of places. And really, all these maudlin, romantic thoughts were beneath him.

Dorian imagined what the look on his father’s face might have been if he knew about this. Why hello, father dear. This is Simon, the inquisitor. He’s a possessed southern mage and has the most fascinating definition for the word ‘people’ that I’ve ever heard of. Pass the salt, would you? He groaned and laughed helplessly. He pressed his palms against his eyes.

The sad thing about it was that he really was completely helpless against Simon. He had Dorian wrapped completely around his finger and didn’t even realize it. That made it worse somehow. It was intolerable. He hadn’t been this vulnerable since Rilienus. He sighed. No, this was a different sort of ache. Rilienus had been sharp and witty, just as he was. Even knowing that Simon had a spirit of combat at his beck and call, even though he’d seen Simon kill an alarming amount of people, he couldn’t imagine him with sharp edges.

What he really wanted was wine. Lots of it. But Simon would come up here eventually. The thought of facing him drunk was too much to bear. He didn’t know how long he lay there on the bed, lost in dark thoughts. He thought wistfully of what a future with Simon might be like. Dorian had grown up in the Imperium and was no stranger to manipulation and clever words. He couldn’t think of anything that might get Simon to stay. He’d come up the stairs angry and hurt, with every right to be, rage at him for a bit and run off into the woods somewhere to commune with Valour or whatever it was he did when he went into the woods.

On the journey to Skyhold, Simon had asked if Dorian was playing a game with him. He’d gathered up his hurt and pride in a swirling cloak and resolved to end it right there before something horrible happened and it hurt too much to pull away. Then Simon had turned all needy and vulnerable and his resolve had guttered out and like a fool Dorian had pressed him into the bedroll and kissed him to stave off any questions.

He couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

 

Dorian grimaced when Simon padded up the stairs. “Hi,” Simon said. He sat next to him on the bed. He reached out and touched Dorian’s arm. He didn’t pull away, though the light touch burned into his skin. He might not get these touches anymore.

“Yes, hello.”

“Talk to me.”

Dorian sighed. He pulled himself up. “What do you want to hear?”

Simon bit his lip. He looked downcast. “Do you kiss all your friends?”

“What do you want from me exactly?” he snapped. “A relationship?”

Simon scrubbed a hand through his dusty hair. “I sort of thought we were already in one?” Dorian’s heart snagged in his teeth. He stared at the inquisitor. His mouth might have even fallen open a bit. Simon winced. “I mean. I just.” He swallowed and Dorian’s eyes latched onto his throat. “I’ve never done any of this before,” he said, “because of Valour. I couldn’t be with someone and lie to them. And there were always the templars watching me and I couldn’t give them anything to use against me because that’s what they do. That’s what they always do. But you’re so incredible and I really like you and I couldn’t help myself. I know that it’s tricky because of Valour, but this means something to me.” Simon looked at him hesitantly. “Talk to me? Please?”

Dorian could only stare. His mouth worked soundlessly. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This was too good to be true. He had absolutely no idea what to do with this. “I was expecting something different,” he said slowly. “Where I come from, anything between two men… it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to. It’s a hard habit to break.”

Simon smiled. “Does that mean you want more too?”

Dorian laughed helplessly. He just looked so hopeful. Hesitant. Shyly pleased. His heart felt full to bursting. “Never go to Tevinter,” he said fondly.

“Because they’d rip me to pieces?”

“Because then I’d have to share you.” Simon was still draped in those ridiculous Avvar furs. They looked very soft. He plucked the furs from Simon’s shoulders – neatly ignoring his protest – and spread them out on the bed. Simon’s brows drew together and he tilted his head in confusion. Dorian smirked and smoothly pushed him down into the furs. He crawled up his body and Simon made a delightfully strained garbling noise. “All of this worrying and talking,” Dorian purred. “I’m bored with it. I hate being bored.” He began to unbutton Simon’s shirt. “Entertain me?”

Simon nodded dumbly beneath him. Triumph seared through his blood. He’d already managed to reduce this man to a fumbling, blushing heap. How delightful. Simon reached up hesitantly and plucked at his buckles. Dorian patiently waited, but his sweet southern mage couldn’t seem to figure it out. It really wasn’t all that complicated. Dorian stripped it off for him. His patience did have a limit, after all.

Dorian stripped his new lover quickly and efficiently. There would be time for more elaborate games later. Right now all he wanted was to hold him and try to express how he felt. He was normally so good with clever words, but Simon had effectively stripped him of that ability. He’d make sure Simon understood how he felt this way instead, but he’d take it slow. It was the other man’s first time, after all. He didn’t want to overwhelm the poor thing. Simon had already started squirming and panting in nervous, delighted anticipation underneath him. It was more than a little distracting.

Dorian helpfully eased off him so that he could take his own clothes off. He cocked a brow. “Think you can handle the pants?” Simon reddened further, giggled and hid his face in the crook of Dorian’s neck. They could work up to that. He removed them himself. Dorian drank in the sight of the other man’s skin greedily. “You’re too thin.” He dug his fingers between Simon’s ribs.

“Am not!” Simon kissed him. Dorian shoved him back down and settled back on top of him. This was perfect. It was better than he could have imagined. He hummed in thought and eyed the bedside table speculatively.

“Please tell me you have something in there.” Simon looked at him blankly. Dorian rolled his eyes. “Honestly. You’re ridiculous.” He pulled open the drawer and peered inside. He breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out a discrete bottle. He waggled it. “You didn’t even know this was here, did you?”

“What is it?”

Now that was just too ridiculous, even for the strange man beneath him. “I’ll show you,” he purred. He tossed it on the furs and set about methodically taking Simon to pieces. Soft, slow touches made him sigh and go languid. Firm scratches made him arch and whine. Dorian couldn’t help but smirk wolfishly. Simon hadn’t quite dared to touch him yet, but his hands rested lightly on Dorian’s thighs. His fingers twitched convulsively. He took it in turns to scratch and bite until Simon writhed and pleaded and then slowly bring him down with gentle, soothing strokes until he shivered and clung to Dorian helplessly.

He experimentally sucked on a nipple that just cried out for attention. Fingers immediately twisted into his hair and tugged. Simon flinched. “Sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Dorian said, “Nonsense. Pull as hard as you like. Nothing wrong with a little pain in bed.” Simon looked doubtful about this. Dorian dug his teeth into one nipple and pinched the other roughly just to prove it. Judging by the keen that elicited, he took it that Simon agreed.

Then Simon yelped and yanked his hair back with all his strength. Although it made him groan and rut his hips forward, he doubted that Simon had just decided to be rough with him. “Stop, stop, stop,” Simon chanted and scrambled out from underneath him.

Dorian held up his hands and let him retreat. “ _Venhedis_ , what’s wrong?”

Simon flapped a hand about in some odd gesture that he couldn’t interpret. “Valour. He’s just. Asking. Questions. Give me a second.” He scowled darkly and slipped out of bed. Dorian sighed regretfully and stroked himself idly. Simon paced about for a few minutes. Every now and then he’d blush furiously or snap at thin air. “I know that!” at one point. “Can we not do this now?” at another.

Finally, he turned and smiled hesitantly. His eyes widened and he drew in a shaky breath when he saw Dorian’s hand on his own cock. He slowly came back to bed, pupils blown wide. Either this was just the most fascinating thing Simon had ever seen or this was a revelation to him. Which wasn’t possible. Simon was a grown man. Then again, he’d merged with a spirit when he was a child. And he hadn’t known where the oil was. “Have you never done this before?” The thought was alien to him.

Simon shrugged. “It never occurred to me.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “How many times have you actually been attracted to someone?”

Simon gave him a look and pointedly ignored the question. He leaned in to kiss him and Dorian drew back. Simon huffed. Finally, he said, “Not often enough to feel like I’m missing out, but often enough that Valour gets annoyed when it happens. Can we go back to doing stuff now?”

Well, how was Dorian supposed to resist such an eloquently phrased request? “If you insist,” he said loftily and tucked Simon back underneath him. Once Simon started to writhe again and his hands swept restlessly across Dorian’s back, he reached out for the oil. Simon watched with avid interest as he coated his fingers. Dorian rubbed at Simon’s entrance with the pad of his finger until his hips jerked and his breathing turned ragged.

He breached him slowly and watched Simon’s face carefully. The moment he crooked his finger, Simon hissed and sank his teeth into his lip. He couldn’t resist leaning down for a kiss. Simon didn’t ask for more. Instead, he clamped his legs around Dorian’s waist and started biting. Dorian gave him more anyways. He could take a hint and verbal encouragement was something else they could work on.

By the time he felt confident enough that Simon could take his cock without any discomfort, he’d started to ache a bit. It really had been far too long. He sheathed himself in a smooth, practiced motion and Simon nearly lost his mind. The southern mage whined and jerked erratically underneath him. Dorian dug his fingers into his hips. “Fasta vass, hold still.” Dorian kissed him to cut off any complaints.

He groaned appreciatively and delved into Simon’s mouth to taste him thoroughly. Simon clung to him and trembled. Dorian forced himself to stick to a slow rhythm so that it would last longer. Heat curled through him. It felt unbelievably good. Not to mention satisfying. He drew back so he could watch the other man. Sex really was better with someone you cared about. Dorian curled his fingers around Simon’s cock and pumped in time with his thrusts. Simon moaned as though he’d been cracked open. He came apart underneath him and Dorian spiraled after.

Once he’d regained his wits, Dorian pulled out carefully and licked them clean. He nuzzled into his new lover’s languid arms and kissed his neck. “Muh,” Simon said.

“Muh indeed.” He felt more sated than he had in a long time. And to think, he’d get to do this again. There’d be a next time. He’d even get to stay the night. That thought sent his heart pounding.

Simon looked at him in pure wonder. As though he’d just hung the stars right in front of him. “Does it always feel that good?”

Dorian laughed helplessly. That had been the most tame sex he’d had in ages. Simon was adorable. “Oh, amatus. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, aren’t I?”

Simon kissed his cheek. The chaste gesture made Dorian’s toes curl. “I don’t want anyone else.”

“The things you say.” Dorian kissed him because he’d never really been able to kiss someone after sex. Normally, he’d already be out the door by now. This was a revelation. Simon was adorably inexperienced, but Dorian had the nagging yet altogether pleasant feeling that it would be the best sex he’d have in ages.

“I have a boyfriend,” Simon said happily.

Dorian gasped and pressed a hand to his heart in faux-horror. “Lover, surely. We’re not farmhands, after all.”

Simon giggled and kissed him sweetly. Dorian hummed in appreciation and smoothed his hands down Simon’s back. Maybe they’d just spend every night like this. Something sank teeth into his leg and Dorian screamed. He twisted off the bed and fell to the floor with a painful thump.

Simon’s horrid cat leapt onto the bed and hissed at him. Simon, because he was evil, laughed and scooped the mangy beast up. Dorian gestured at the puncture marks in his calf. “Kaffas, why are you laughing? Look at what your fanged monster did to me.”

He clambered back onto the bed so that Simon could properly see his injury. Simon leaned in for a kiss. Dorian leaned back, as he was still holding the cat. Mittens growled and flexed its claws. “She likes you. And it’s only a small bite. I’ll fix it.” Thankfully, he set the cat down. It swiped in Dorian’s direction because it was vile and curled into a black, puffed up ball on the pillow.

Simon reached out and blue light seeped from his fingers. Dorian pointed at the cat. “What is that thing even doing here? Was it _watching_ us?”

“I don’t know. I was busy. Maybe.”

“It’s not sleeping here. I’m not sharing the bed with that thing.”

His flesh sealed together. Simon looked positively injured. “She can’t sleep outside. It’s cold out there.” He pointed to the pillow. “That’s where she sleeps, Dorian. I can’t kick her out. Stop being mean to her.”

Dorian glared venomously at the cat. He couldn’t help but notice that there were no other pillows. The sole pillow (which Mittens was currently sitting on) had a suspicious amount of cat hair coating it. “Where’s your pillow?”

Simon shrugged. “Do I need a pillow?”

Dorian cursed savagely and swiped his clothing off the flagstone. “I’m getting pillows. And I’m not sharing the bed with the cat.”

“I’ll be in the bed and you can sleep on the floor, then. Mittens is staying.” Dorian sighed. Simon had that infuriatingly firm expression on his face that meant this was a lost cause. Damn it. He hated that cat.

“I may or may not sleep on the bed. Either way, I’m getting pillows.”

Simon kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

Dorian dressed and left. “I’m starting to regret this relationship,” he called over his shoulder.

“Don’t be silly. You’re deliriously happy.”

Dorian smiled fondly and shook his head. He was. He really was.


End file.
